


Down To The River

by feathers_and_cigarettes



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Gwen (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically the same bullshit as always except more murder, Blind Character, Dark but fluffy, Dirty Cop Frank Castle, Earth-65, Evil Matt Murdock, Excessive Ninjas, Explicit Sexual Content, Franksturbation, Fratt - Freeform, Kingpin Matt Murdock, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Rough Sex, is that a thing?, murderdock, there i made it a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22625578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/pseuds/feathers_and_cigarettes
Summary: “You can put your toy away, Captain,” Murdock purrs. “You don’t need to impress me and it’s going to take a lot more than threatening my life to get me to believe you. We’ll keep that between us though, shall we? Don’t want the NYPD adding more to your file.”When Frank loses his job, his obsession with beating Spider-Woman takes a turn as asshole attorney Matt Murdock decides to take a liking to him.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 31
Kudos: 67





	1. I Got My Back Up To The Edge Of The Room

**Author's Note:**

> This will be divergent from most of the Earth-65 Spider-Gwen run and neither of these guys will have any sort of redeeming value so if Murder Husbands puts you off, this isn't the fic for you. I'll update tags as necessary. Inspired by a couple pics of long haired Jon Bernthal and Charlie Cox and Murderdock in general. No major characters will die, but a whole lot of minor ones will.
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)

“Who let you in?”

The red sunglasses glitter like rubies in the dim light and Frank receives a shark’s smile from the doorway. “C’mon now, Captain,” Murdock purrs, pushing himself off the doorframe and sauntering over to Frank’s desk. His cane – not the folding version, Frank notices – taps the edge of the desk and Murdock leans a hip against it. “Take pity on a poor blind man. I simply asked for directions to the men’s room and must’ve gotten turned around.”

“Clear around to the other side of the building, sure,” Frank snorts, moving the box he’s packing to keep Murdock in his field of vision. “I see you lost your tail too.”

“Genya?” Murdock shrugs and runs his fingers along a picture frame before Frank snatches it away. “Had to let him go. Wasn’t down with the new vision, so to speak.”

Frank gently places the photograph in the box and puts the lid on it. He doesn’t have time for this, never has time for Murdock’s games, but something keeps drawing him to the scumbag again and again. “I thought his name was Viktor,” he mutters, stacking the box on top of the first and scanning the office quickly.

“Eh, something burly and Russian. I get ‘em all mixed up and their employment usually doesn’t last long. It’s a shame, really.”

“Why are you here?” Frank asks, exasperated. Not that he expects a straight answer out of Murdock, he never does, but he’s lucky he was even given time to pack his shit after the whole Internal Affairs investigation. “Ten words or less.”

Murdock makes a face and hops up on the now-bare desk. He lets his cane dangle between his legs, idly tapping it against the threadbare carpet. “I can’t wonder how you’re doing?”

“Four words left,” Frank growls, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of the chair and stuffing his arms into the sleeves. He stalks past Murdock to take his awards and medals down from the walls.

A leg blocks his path and Frank can feel his hackles start to rise. Murdock reaches out and slides Frank’s tie through his fingers, his leg hooking around Frank’s thigh. “I missed you,” he murmurs, tilting his head up to face Frank’s and counting out the words on his free hand. “Happy?”

Not even remotely. Frank’s brain protests even as his body sways helplessly into Murdock’s space, his mind flashing back to their last “encounter” – the last non-violent one, anyway. Sure, it was arguably the hottest sex of Frank Castle’s life, but even the best fuck in the world can’t erase the nausea that threatens to rise at the thought of being so close to the slimeball.

“Back off,” Frank snarls, his face contorting with barely controlled rage.

Murdock’s smile widens, a flash of stupidly white teeth that Frank has the urge to break. The hand sliding up Frank’s tie comes to rest just above his heart. He rises sinuously, his breath warm against Frank’s face, his mouth twisted in a crooked grin. “You first.”

Frank wants to shove him away, to shove him out the goddamned window, but this stupid attraction won’t let him. He knows it, and, even worse, Murdock knows it. A low growl rips through his throat and he lets his hands fall to Murdock’s narrow waist, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He shoves Murdock back against the desk, a spark of arousal shooting through him at Murdock’s pleased gasp.

He sinks his teeth into Murdock’s neck, alternating between worrying the flesh with his teeth and sucking a bruise into it. The cane clatters to the floor and a hand fists itself into Frank’s too long hair almost painfully. He’s tugged closer, Murdock’s head tilting back with a sinful moan to give him better access.

Murdock’s already hard in his expensive suit pants as Frank grinds their hips together. The bastard may have some sort of sixth sense when it comes to knowing what Frank wants, but he’s stupidly easy to get revved up – thank God for small miracles.

Frank slides his hands down to Murdock’s ass and lifts him up onto the desk, stepping neatly in between his spread legs and pushing him down until he’s flat on the desk. Bracing one hand on the desk, Frank continues his assault on Murdock’s neck and palms the hard cock through the soft material of his pants.

“God, Frank,” Murdock breathes, arching up into Frank’s hand. His needy panting sends shivers along Frank’s spine just from the mere idea that he can make someone like Matt Murdock come apart so easily.

“Shut up,” Frank growls, moving a hand from Murdock’s hip to press against his throat. “Don’t wanna hear you speak.” The moans and cries are one thing, but he’s in no mood to listen to Murdock’s silver tongue.

Murdock’s cock twitches under Frank’s hand and he writhes on the desk, the picture of wanton sin. His grin widens as Frank’s fingers tighten around his throat and he lets his hand fall from Frank’s hair to brush slowly over Frank’s face, first his brow, then his nose, then ghosting over his lips. “Can only imagine what we must look like,” he manages to gasp. “Two sides of the same coin, you and I.”

The words are like a splash of ice water and Frank jerks backward like he’s been shot. He stumbles over one of the boxes but manages to stay upright, his chest heaving with a mix of horror and arousal. He brushes his hair out of his eyes with a trembling hand, nausea rising in his throat at the memory of Murdock’s hands – the hands of a cold-blooded killer – almost tenderly touching his face.

“Get out,” he rasps, readjusting his tie and fixing his rumpled suit jacket.

It’s only a small comfort that Murdock’s still lying on the desk, a baffled look on his handsome fucking face, his dick still tenting his pants. He tilts his head slightly and sits up, his brow furrowing. “Can’t exactly go back into public like this,” he says carefully, gesturing at his groin. “If you’re gonna get me all hot and bothered and leave me high and dry, the least you could do is let me hang out for a minute until I’m presentable again.”

“Tough shit.” Frank pulls his Glock – his own personal piece; IA confiscated his NYPD issued weapon – from his belt and watches Murdock’s eyebrows raise as he thumbs the safety. “I said get out. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

Murdock hops off the desk, tapping the floor with his shoe until he finds his cane. He adjusts himself in his pants and smooths the wrinkles out of his suit, the smug look never leaving his face despite his dishevelled appearance. Rolling his shoulders, he deliberately taps his cane against Frank’s shoe and leans in close, boldly ignoring the gun that presses into his chest.

“You can put your toy away, Captain,” Murdock purrs. “You don’t need to impress me and it’s going to take a lot more than threatening my life to get me to believe you. We’ll keep that between us though, shall we? Don’t want the NYPD adding more to your file.”

Frank bristles, his lip curling in a silent snarl as Murdock presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your secret is safe with me.”

~*~*~*~

“The files you requested on the Captain, Master Murdock.”

“Thank you, Otomo,” Matt says absently, taking the file and flipping it open. He skims his fingers along the Braille text and grunts. Nothing he doesn’t already know. “I trust you arranged for the lovely ex-Mrs. Castle and her dear children to be watched?”

“Satsuke is leading the guard. She also has her own protection detail after the Captain’s latest outburst.”

Matt snorts, his hands continuing to move over the documents. “Idiots. Frank would never do anything to harm Maria or his children,” he mutters. “He may be a wild card, but he’s no monster. There’s a method to his madness, Otomo.”

Otomo is still beside Matt’s desk, his heartbeat steady. “As you say, Master.”

Leaning back in his chair, Matt tilts his head toward Otomo and idly toys with his folded cane. “You don’t care for him,” he says, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. “Speak freely. What is it about our disgraced ex-Captain that makes you grind your teeth?”

There’s a long silence. To his credit, Otomo’s heartbeat only ticks up a notch for a mere second or two before he gets himself under control. “He’s a liability, Master. Every second you spend in his company, you endanger the Hand’s presence here and all we have worked to achieve.” Otomo hesitates, exhales quietly, his heart beating three times out of rhythm. “He’s changing you, Master Murdock. You have a weakness for him.”

Matt fights back to instinctive urge to eviscerate the man where he stands. Otomo’s an excellent aide, and such a reaction would probably just prove his point. “Just because I’m fucking someone doesn’t mean I’m going weak, Otomo,” he says, keeping his tone courtroom calm. “I don’t have to take a vow of chastity to be the Western Sun.”

Otomo takes several breaths before he starts speaking again, the tension in his voice evident. “With all due respect, Master, he is a danger. He knows you killed Wilson Fisk, he can connect you to at least ten other killings, he knows about Spider-Woman… When the Punisher gets hold of something he doesn’t let it go.”

His aide’s heartbeat is rising rapidly, his normally stoic demeanour cracking. “You wouldn’t have let anyone else live so long with the knowledge he has. You don’t think clearly around him. You-“

Otomo’s words are cut off with a howl of pain as Matt unsheathes his sword and stabs the tip through his foot.

“Let me be clear,” Matt hisses as he grabs Otomo by the front of his shirt and hauls him down over his desk. He twists the hilt of his sword, hearing the bones grind against steel. “Frank Castle is under my protection. His life is worth ten times that of anyone in this organization, including yours; do you understand?”

A small moan escapes Otomo and Matt shakes him like a rag doll. Yanking the sword out of Otomo’s foot, Matt flips it and presses the flat of the blade against the man’s neck.

“Yes!” Otomo gasps, trembling and reeking of fear. “I understand!”

“See that you continue to,” Matt growls, releasing Otomo and flicking the blade down. He smirks as the sword slices cleanly through Otomo’s hand, severing his last two fingers on his right hand. “Let the others know. Get yourself cleaned up and out of my office, these rugs were _just_ cleaned,” he says over Otomo’s whimpers.

Slumping back into his seat, he digs a rag out from one of his desk drawers and wipes the blood from his weapon. Fucking Otomo. He doesn’t like having to discipline his underlings – some of them, anyway – and Otomo’s long since been a loyal ally. If doubt has trickled this far up the chain of command, well… Matt may have to send a message to everyone under the Western Sun.

Grimacing, he sheathes his blade back into his folding cane and pages a janitor up to his office and a biohazard team. His fingers twitch and he mentally curses Otomo again and curses Frank while he’s at it. He’d been in a perfectly decent mood until Frank had decided to be a tease and Otomo question his judgement. A trip to Fogwell’s might be in order to let off some steam.

Christ, he hates feeling like this: edgy, out of control, hearing the blood pounding in his veins. A good fight or fuck usually does the trick, but he’s never been able to get a decent bout going at Fogwell’s – too many idiots thinking they need to go easy on the blind guy – and somehow he doesn’t think showing up at Frank’s apartment would be the best choice, despite Frank’s obvious lie about wanting to kill him.

The janitor and cleaning crew arrive, all of their heartbeats racing as they enter the room. Matt gets to his feet and pulls his jacket on, annoyed by their fear. He can’t think in this place anymore; normally fear is intoxicating, something to be relished, but right now it stinks, an acrid scent that lingers in the air and contaminates everything it touches.

“Get me a car,” Matt orders, brushing past the jittery cleaning crew with a sweep of his cane. He needs a different kind of break tonight, away from the Hand, away from his responsibilities as New York’s Kingpin, and, as much as he hates to admit it, away from Frank fucking Castle.

He taps out a number on his phone, one that comes automatically even though he rarely uses it these days, as he makes his way down to the front of the building and waits impatiently for his car.

“Y’know, there used to be a time where I didn’t dread your calls, Matt,” the voice on the other end of the line sighs.

“C’mon now, Foggy,” Matt says with a grin. “Old friends can’t just call to say hello?”

~*~*~*~

Sometimes Frank wishes he could just get out of his own skin.

He’s back in his shitty motel room – he can’t bear to go back to his own home, not with the ghosts of Maria and the kids still haunting the place – and he’s so restless that he just wants to claw at his skin, his hair, tear everything down until there’s nothing of Frank Castle left. He knows there’s no one to blame but himself, but he doesn’t know how to change, how to be the man Maria wanted him to be. Maybe being War Machine fucked him up, or maybe the Marines, or maybe he was already heading down this path even before then, but at least the NYPD gave him an outlet for his obsessions, for his... quirks.

He growls out his frustration and turns the hot water faucet up higher until he can barely stand the spray pounding like acid against his flesh.

Maybe he should have stayed with Murdock. The darkness the man represents is always tempting, the delicious blend of pleasure and pain that always comes with sex, something Frank never knew he craved and is still somewhat ashamed about. He can still feel the bite of Murdock’s nails raking down his back, the blunt force of his fingers at his hips, the bruises sucked into the insides of Frank’s thighs.

Frank’s cock twitches in interest despite the scalding water. Sighing, Frank stands under the spray for another minute before wrenching the tap off. His body’s fixated on Murdock today and isn’t going to let up.

He grabs the threadbare towel from the back of the toilet and dries himself off, the scratch of the rough fabric against his overheated skin only putting him more on edge. Towelling his too long hair, Frank pads out of the bathroom and collapses onto the bed.

Denying his baser urges usually isn’t this difficult. His sex drive has never been high and typically easy enough to ignore, even more so after Maria left that night. Ever since his night with Murdock though, it’s all he can think about.

Growling in frustration, he throws the towel into the corner of the room and glares at the ceiling. His fingers twitch at his side, looking for a trigger that isn’t there, and finally clench into the starched sheets.

Murdock was unlike any other lover he’d ever had, the whole male thing notwithstanding. He’d delighted in Frank’s dark side, equally as eager to fight him as he was to fuck him. Frank wasn’t used to that kind of raw enthusiasm and the emotions it’d brought out in him.

Passion. Something Frank hadn’t even been aware he’d missed.

Biting his lip, he palms his cock, surprised at how hard he is. His hand feels too big, too rough, and he tries to remember what Maria’s hand felt like. Slim fingers, soft skin; it’s not enough though, and the hand he’s picturing shifts, becoming larger, with calloused fingertips and scars along the knuckles. Fingers that have been broken as many times as Frank’s have, fingers that have been coated in as much blood.

Groaning, Frank tilts his head back against the pillow and squeezes his dick, letting fluid collect at the tip before using it to ease his strokes. Murdock’s scent comes to mind immediately, surprisingly not drowned in expensive cologne, but clean and masculine under a faint sheen of sweat. He craves that scent, especially now, craves the taste of Murdock’s skin.

He remembers being surprised at the amount of scars on Murdock’s body, remembers tracing hard muscle with his lips, leaving his own bruises and marks on pale flesh. The cries and curses haunt Frank’s dreams, but right now it’s Murdock’s laughter that spurs him on, Murdock’s delight as Frank fucked into him harder, rougher, faster.

Frank’s legs fall open, his toes curling into the sheets, bucking into his fist. His free hand drifts down his abdomen, tracing over his inner thigh, over the bruises that’ve since faded, and cups his balls, keeping up constant light pressure. His eyes drift shut, his hair damp over his forehead just as it had been that night.

If he pretends, he can almost feel Murdock’s weight settled over his hips. He thrusts up erratically, keening out his frustration as he fucks into his hand. His imagination’s good, but it’s not enough, _he’s_ not enough, he needs…

_“That’s it, Frank. Let me see who you really are.”_

Murdock’s mocking tone echoes in Frank’s head and his dick twitches in response, fluid dripping down the shaft. His harsh pants sound hollow alone in the motel room and he lets himself drift further into the memory.

_“I’m not afraid of your demons, Frank. Let them come out and play.”_

Frank rolls over onto his stomach, getting his knees underneath him and bracing with one hand on the headboard that’s seen better days. His hand speeds up on his cock, his hips moving in quick, rough thrusts.

Murdock hadn’t had too many coherent words after Frank had flipped them and pinned both of his wrists above his head. He’d thrown his head back in ecstasy, those vacant blue eyes squeezing shut as he came untouched over his stomach while Frank pounded into him.

The memory of Murdock’s cries was enough, of Frank’s name being bitten out as both a prayer and a curse. Frank’s orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him gasping and reeling as his hips jerk spasmodically and his legs tremble with exertion. The headboard creaks dangerously under his hand and he lets go, collapsing face first into the damp pillow, his hand automatically moving lightly over his dick through the aftershocks.

He gives himself one last squeeze that’s almost painful before he lets go and falls onto his side, his chest heaving. He’s sticky with sweat and semen and he really should have waited to shower but he’s too tired to move. Sighing, he wipes his hand on a corner of the bed and grimaces down at the wet spot. His pillow’s probably a lost cause too, soaked through from his hair.

God, he’s pathetic.

Rising on still unsteady legs, Frank strips the covers off the bed and balls them up into a heap in the corner. There’s still a wet spot in the centre of the bed, but at least it’s smaller now and honestly Frank’s slept in worse. He grabs a spare pillow from the closet and flops back down with a groan.

He has to do something about Murdock. The evil sonofabitch has tainted everything, gotten too deep into Frank’s head, and Frank _knows_ how scumbags like Murdock work and yet here he is, ignoring every red flag in the fuckin’ book. He should arrest him – or, better yet, kill him – and be done with it.

A headache teases behind his eyes, a familiar sensation whenever he thinks too hard about Matt Murdock. The man’s rich laughter ghosts through his mind as his memory drifts back to the aftermath of that night, when they’d both finished and Frank’d ran his hands through the long red hair without thinking. He remembers pressing a soft kiss over each of Murdock’s sightless eyes, the peace he’d felt in that moment.

Murdock’s voice had been soft, almost reverential, a hint of surprise colouring his words, as if he’d somehow expected a far different outcome.

The afterglow hadn’t lasted long. Frank had taken one look at the welts and bruises he’d left on Murdock’s body, felt the burn of the ones mottling his own, and raced for the bathroom, the horror of what he’d just done coming to fruition.

And now, here he was, jacking off in some skeezy motel room to the memory of night spent with a psychopath.

How far the once decorated Lieutenant Frank Castle had fallen.

Fuck. He’ll deal with it in the morning. The entire day he’ll just chalk up to a lapse in judgement and blue balls, maybe a side effect of the new sleeping pills or some shit.

He punches the pillow until it’s only mildly uncomfortable and pulls the sheet up to his waist. As his eyes close and exhaustion sinks its claws into him, he tries his best not to think about how, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he belonged somewhere when he was in the Kingpin’s arms.


	2. Your Words Of Venom Spitting Salt In My Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank agrees to accompany Matt for a night out on the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey I have a plot for this. Warnings for slight gore.

Chapter Two:

Somewhere, some higher power is laughing at Frank.

The next night he’s at some dump in Hell’s Kitchen and he barely has time to order his bourbon when the District Attorney stomps into the bar, his face set into a deep frown and radiating discomfort. The reason why is close on Nelson’s heels dressed in a sharp crimson suit, a smirk on his face and cane tapping the floor in front of him.

Fucking Murdock. Nelson has no reason to talk to Frank, so maybe if they just keep walking, Frank will just blend into the background.

They’re clearly having some sort of disagreement. Frank knows Nelson’s one of the few actually decent people Murdock associates with – though why, Frank has no fucking clue – but the man’s never looked comfortable in Murdock’s presence. Nelson’s face is tight as he approaches the bar and Frank hunches down into his jacket, hoping he’ll go unnoticed.

“One night, Fogs, that’s all I’m asking,” Murdock says, his voice sounding irritated but not quite homicidal. Not yet, anyway.

Nelson nods to the bartender and signals for two beers. “No, Matt. I’ve told you before: whatever you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in, I want no part of. If you just want to hang out and, y’know, actually be my fucking friend again, I’m down for that.”

Murdock waves his hand dismissively. “I’ve always been your friend, Foggy. We may not be partners anymore, but you’ll always be my best friend. You don’t even have to be involved; I just need to send a message to certain… parties.”

“And make me an accessory?” Nelson hisses before looking around the room quickly. He looks past Frank, who has his jacket collar flipped up and his hat pulled down low over his face. “No, Matt, and might I fuckin’ suggest that whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself into, you get out as soon as goddamned possible.”

“The situation’s under control. You’re just gonna come out with me for a nice, relaxing dinner and we’re gonna catch up like old friends.”

“ _No,_ Matt.”

Christ, Frank doesn’t even _like_ the fucking DA, but he doesn’t know how far Nelson – how far _anyone_ – can push Murdock and he really doesn’t want to find out. He downs the last of his bourbon and stands, clears his throat loud enough to be heard over the music and crowd. “You ever hear of consent, Murdock? Suppose it’s not quite black and white for you lawyers, but really? Find someone else to go on your little date.”

Murdock tilts his head, a slow, predatory smile crossing his face. “Captain Castle – well, should I say former Captain? Mr. Castle’s too pedestrian for someone like you; perhaps War Machine? ‘Punisher’ sounds like you’re a cheap porn star, if we’re being honest here, and we both know you’re better than –“

“Don’t you have some scumbag to be defending? Dirty cops to bribe?” Frank shoots back, keeping the anger out of his voice. No sense in letting the bastard have the satisfaction of pissing him off.

Nelson glances nervously between the two, the poor bastard. He draws himself up, clearly hesitant to take Frank’s side. They’re certainly no allies; Nelson’s long been a vocal critic of Frank’s professional methods, even on cases they’ve worked together on, and Frank has no real respect for lawyers in general anyway. “This isn’t your concern, Castle. I appreciate you stepping in, but-“

“No,” Murdock says, his voice like a judge’s gavel. “Frank’s a friend, Fogs. What’dya say, Frank? You wanna take Foggy’s place? I can guarantee you the best food money can buy – anything you want. Two hours tops, one date, this Friday.”

Heat sears along Frank’s veins as he remembers the previous night’s masturbation session and the subsequent memories of their night together. He should say no, _needs_ to say no, and yet…

“What’s the catch?”

Murdock’s shark smile widens and he brushes his hair back out of his face. “You don’t ask questions. This is a private matter and I intend for it to stay that way. All I ask is you spend two hours of your time with me and eat what the good chefs serve you.”

Why? What’s Murdock’s endgame here? “So you just need to show that you… what? Actually are capable of having friends?”

“Friends that have teeth. I’d prefer legally, of course, but showing up with the infamous Punisher on my arm should get the job done.”

“This is so fucked up, Matt, Jesus,” Nelson moans, resting his elbows on the bar and covering his face with his hands.

Murdock stands, all sinuous grace, the suit hugging his body in all the right places. He steps around Nelson, his cane forgotten on the bar. Backing Frank back onto his barstool, he grins, stepping neatly between Frank’s legs in a mockery of their position on the desk the day before. “Do we have a date?” he murmurs, tilting his head and draping an arm over Frank’s shoulder.

Arousal and disgust war within Frank’s body, the sharp bite of lust dulled by the nausea at the Kingpin being so close, so _familiar_. He shoves Murdock’s arm off, ignoring the alarmed looks from the bar patrons and Murdock’s dark chuckle. “Fine, it’s a _deal._ Two hours, dinner, and I don’t make a citizen’s arrest. Suppose you’re gonna talk the entire time too?”

“Mmmm, yeah, so there _is_ a tiny catch. In order for this to work, you’ve gotta pretend you actually like me – platonic or otherwise is up to you, since you’re taking Foggy’s place.”

Frank snorts and jerks away, spinning his stool back to face the bar. He signals for a refill and absently hopes maybe Murdock’ll try to have him poisoned. “You’re really friends with this piece of shit, Nelson? C’mon, man, you’re better than that,” he mutters, taking a long sip when the bartender moves away. The cheap liquor burns, but it’s not enough to wash the memory of Murdock’s kisses from his mind.

“You’re one to talk, Castle,” Nelson snaps. He slaps down a few bills and pushes his hair out of his eyes with slightly shaking hands. “Matt, I really thought you’d turned over a new leaf. There haven’t been any… _incidents_ in a while. We were talking again like old times, but I guess you haven’t really changed, have you?”

Murdock reels back like he’s been slapped, a frown marring his handsome features. “Foggy, just because Frank’s going to do this favour for me doesn’t mean you’re not my friend. I’m still the same guy I’ve always been.”

“Yeah,” Nelson snorts, grief visible on his face. “Yeah, I’m starting to think that’s the problem.”

“Foggy…”

“I don’t want to hear it; hell, I’ve probably already heard too much. I’m gonna go back to my nice little bubble where you’re not some shady… whatever the fuck. I don’t want to know. Call me when you’re gonna be an actual human being again and not whatever _this_ ,” Nelson waves between Frank and Murdock, “is. You’ve always been questionable, Matt, but Jesus. You’re gonna get someone killed.”

Wouldn’t be the first time. Frank turns and stares at his drink, more as a courtesy to Nelson’s fading dignity than Murdock’s. He knows what it’s like to lose a best friend, for that person to become twisted into a shadow of their former selves. He’s been fooled just as Nelson has, and if he had a heart left, it’d go out to the man.

Murdock’s still as Nelson’s footsteps fade toward the doorway. Whatever emotion’s the bastard’s capable of, he’s clearly practiced at hiding them. Sighing, Murdock adjusts his glasses and settles himself neatly at the bar, his hand unerringly finding his beer and bringing it to his lips.

Frank watches Murdock drink out of the corner of his eye, watches that long throat move as he swallows, watches the slight bruises marring the skin shift.

Pausing, Murdock smiles into his mug and sets it back down on the bar. “See something you like, Captain?”

Swearing, Frank growls and throws forty bucks down on the bar and gets to his feet before Murdock gets the satisfaction of riling him further.

~*~*~*~

Despite utterly not giving a shit and utterly squashing down any idea of a “date,” Frank finds himself unsure how to proceed by the time Friday rolls around. The last thing he wants is to play Murdock’s game, but he also wouldn’t put it past the psychopath to take out any of Frank’s transgressions on Nelson. He doesn’t like Nelson, but he’s one of the only good things New York has going for it at this rate, and some deeply buried survival instinct screams at him to not push Matthew Murdock.

Does he play along, dress in one of his old suits? Maybe professional will cut it and he can just wear the shit he’d wear to work and not have to think about it. Another part of his mind tells him to just wear a t-shirt and jeans, to separate himself as much as possible from Murdock’s sharp cleanliness.

He stands at his closet in his boxer briefs, his mind racing. He hasn’t thought this much about his wardrobe since he and Maria first got together and he resolutely shoves that thought into the furthest recesses of his mind. Murdock doesn’t deserve even the same breath as Maria.

Pulling out a black henley, Frank tugs it over his head and tucks his dog tags under the collar, letting them rest against his chest. Desk work has softened him a little bit, but he still fills the shirt out nicely. He grabs a pair of black jeans that only have a little fraying on the hems and pulls them on; a step up from ultra casual, but still date-appropriate, should Murdock choose that route. He can’t bear the thought of wearing one of his nice suits, but this seems like a decent compromise and what few morals he has won’t be sacrificed.

He’s just pulling his boots on when there’s a knock at the door. Freezing, Frank glances toward the front door, unable to see through the dirty window from this angle. He grabs his Glock and thumbs the safety, standing slowly and silently. Plenty of people know about the house, of course, but he hasn’t been here for weeks and wouldn’t have even come if he’d brought enough clothes to the motel with him.

His phone pulses in his pocket and he scowls when he pulls it out to look at the caller ID. _666_. He’d put it in his phone partially to avoid any obvious connection to Murdock and partially as a joke, but he can’t think of anything more fitting now.

_“Put your gun away, Captain. It’s just Otomo. I figured you’d want to be discreet, so I passed on the limo for tonight,”_ Murdock’s amused voice says in lieu of a greeting.

Frank doesn’t bother to respond. He hits the red end button and shoves his phone back into his pocket as he gets to his feet. Yanking the door open, he levels his best glare at the bald man who stands before him.

“Captain Castle,” the man – Otomo, presumably, Frank’s seen him in Murdock’s entourage before – says stiffly. He doesn’t like Frank, that much is obvious.

Making a show of clicking the safety back on his gun and tucking it into the back of his waistband, Frank settles his jacket over the gun and brushes past Otomo to the waiting SUV. Another minion is there, anonymous in his shades and crisp suit, and opens the rear door for Frank, revealing Murdock who’s dressed to the nines.

“This your idea of discreet?” Frank scoffs, resting one arm on the frame of the SUV and glaring into the vehicle, for all the good it’ll do.

Murdock takes a sip from a silver flask and holds it out. “That your idea of appropriate dress for a high end restaurant?” Frank blinks, thrown off guard, but Murdock’s waving a hand at him and leaning back. “Whatever, it’s fine. I’m going to assume you look better in that than a suit. Get in.”

Frank complies automatically, that low tone of command threatening to send shivers down his spine. He ignores the flask; whatever Murdock’s got planned for the evening, he needs his wits about him. “You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“ _Jacques’_ on Fifth. Management has been a problem there, of late, so I figured it would be best to poke my head in and see what’s going on – metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Of course, though Frank’s starting to wonder about Murdock’s vision. He doesn’t put it past the scumbag to fake his disability and there’s been more than one occasion that’s given Frank pause.

“So we’re what? Gonna go and threaten people?” Murdock’s cocky but he isn’t that obvious, not in public. He’s spent too much time keeping up his blind lawyer act to throw it away like that. “C’mon, I’m not goddamned stupid, Murdock. What are you up to?”

Murdock raises an eyebrow over his red sunglasses. “I thought our deal was you didn’t ask any questions. I’ve already given you more information than I’d have given Foggy; perks of being my close, _intimate_ friend.”

The purr in Murdock’s voice does _things_ to Frank even as he fights the urge to throttle him. “We’re not fucking friends, you son of a bitch.”

“Well, I suppose the friends part is arguable, but we _are_ –“

Frank lashes out before he can think and wraps his hand around Murdock’s throat. There’s the click of a safety and the cold metal of a gun barrel against his temple, but Murdock’s hand comes up to stop the minion, rather than Frank.

“Put the gun away before I see how many bullets you can handle before you bleed out, Dmitri,” Murdock grits out, swallowing heavily against Frank’s hand. “Keep driving, Otomo.” He tilts his head in Frank’s direction and slowly raises his hands. “Make your choice, Frank; they won’t stop you.”

It could be all over, right here. New York would be free of the Kingpin once and for all. Frank wouldn’t ever be able to go back to being a cop, likely would end up on the run, but there’re worse fates. He’s already resigned himself to a life without Maria, without his children. They’re better off without someone like Frank in their lives. He just has to squeeze hard enough and this nightmare can end.

He can’t do it though; and even worse – Murdock knows he can’t.

Murdock makes a show of rubbing his neck and shifting in his seat as Frank releases him and sits back with a scowl. That fuckin’ smile is back, that cocky, stupidly attractive grin that ensures Murdock always gets what he wants. “Probably best we don’t make a scene before dinner, but if you want to try that again later tonight… well, I _do_ put out on the first date.”

The images that flash through Frank’s mind are downright filthy and he growls under his breath and turns to look out the window.

~*~*~*~

The ride to the restaurant passes without incident. Otomo opens the door for Murdock, whose hand lashes out and grabs Otomo’s bandaged one, squeezing cruelly. Murdock drags him close and whispers something in his ear, then releases him abruptly. To his credit, Otomo merely flinches and sets his jaw even as blood starts to seep through the bandage.

Dmitri opens Frank’s door and takes meticulous care to not look at him. Frank’s a little out of his depth anyway; sure, he’s been to nice restaurants, worked undercover, but he’s never been on a date with someone he simultaneously loathes and craves. He brushes past Dmitri and joins Murdock, absently offering his elbow before he can realize what he’s doing.

To his surprise, Murdock tilts his head and folds his cane back up. His hand trails along Frank’s forearm before coming to rest in the crook of his elbow, settling there like it belongs.

Fuck.

Fortunately, Frank doesn’t have time to think about the fact that Murdock’s hand is fucking _comforting_ against his arm. Otomo and Dmitri open the doors to _Jacques’_ and the place is absolutely barren. The waiters are huddled in a group by the hostess station while a balding man in a suit stares at Murdock like he’s seen a ghost.

“Master Murdock!” the man stammers, wiping his palms on the front of his black suit jacket. “This is an unexpected honour. I knew we were serving a VIP tonight, but I never dreamed it would be you.”

Murdock smiles and the man’s trembling increases. “You know how much I value my investments, David, as well as my privacy. Where better to take my dear Captain Castle but here? He can have a taste of the best New York has to offer, and I can check in and make sure everything’s going smoothly. I regret not having supported the restaurant in person earlier; a personal touch makes everything better, am I right?”

“Of course,” David bites out, swallowing heavily. He’s sweating so badly Frank can practically taste his fear. Bowing slightly to Frank, he sends waiters scurrying with a wave of his hand. “Captain Castle, it’s… an honour.” Liar. “If I can do anything to assist, gentlemen, please ask.”

“We’ll sit at the chef’s table. If you don’t mind sending the kitchen staff out? I told the good Captain they would be pleased to make him the best meal of his life,” Murdock says, his hand creeping up a little higher on Frank’s bicep and bumping their hips together, as if daring David to say something.

They’re seated by a visibly jumpy waitress. She stutters out her introduction and her hands are shaking so much that a bit of ice water slops over the side of the glass. Quickly, she glances at Murdock and babbles apologies, reaching for one of the napkins and second guessing her decision.

Frank takes pity on her and grunts something noncommittal, picking up his own napkin and soaking up the water. He doesn’t know what this restaurant’s done to incur Murdock’s wrath but he’s not sure this waitress, probably barely out of her teens, has done anything that’d make her deserve whatever the bastard has up his sleeve.

“So considerate,” Murdock murmurs, his fingers brushing the tablecloth until he finds his own glass and brings it to his lips. “We’ll take a bottle of your finest red, please.”

The waitress flees. Whatever Murdock’s plotting, she’s clearly familiar with how this song and dance goes. For the second time in an hour, Frank contemplates just putting a bullet in Murdock’s skull and finishing things. For the second time in an hour, Frank’s heart revolts at the thought of Murdock’s lifeless corpse.

“Tell me, Frank – can I call you Frank?” Murdock smiles politely, waiting until Frank reluctantly grunts an affirmative. God, Frank hates polite criminals. “Do you like wine?”

“No.”

“Ah, too bad. I’ve gotta insist that you at least try it – appearances, you feel me?” Murdock’s voice drops to a conspiratory whisper and he smiles as he toys with his cutlery, the knife dancing through his fingers for a second before he puts it back down.

Frank grunts in response and takes a sip of his water. He’s already clocked the exits – guarded by Otomo and Dmitri – and he wonders just how long he’s going to have to put up with this fucked up shitshow.

The kitchen staff files out and stands awkwardly in front of their table. The waitress looks even more terrified than she did before, but manages to set two wine glasses down on the table and offer the bottle for Murdock’s inspection. “Our best Bordeaux – the Joseph Phelps Insignia. Our guests of more refined taste give it rave reviews. Would you like for me to pour for…” she trails off as she realizes Murdock can’t fucking see the bottle and immediately begins trembling again. “I’m so sorry, Master Murdock, I completely forgot… You’re just so…”

The chef snatches the bottle from her and unseals the bottle and pops the cork, smoothly pouring a small portion and handing the glass to Murdock. “Forgive her, sir, she’s new,” he says quickly. “The bottle is on the house, of course, and I’d be happy to send you home with another if it’s to your esteemed taste.”

So much ass kissing. Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes and his trigger finger twitches under the table.

Murdock swirls his glass and brings it to his nose. He hums in approval and takes a sip, a sinful groan escaping his throat as he savours it. “It’s perfect – is that blackberry I taste? Very layered; well done, chef, well done.” He leans back in his chair as the chef tops off his glass and pours one for Frank. “I assured Captain Castle that you would be up to the challenge of making anything his heart desires, I trust I was correct in assuming that?”

Smiling thinly, the chef finally turns his attention to Frank. “Of course. What can I prepare for you, Captain?”

Frank stares straight at Murdock, hoping the bastard can feel his gaze. “Bacon cheeseburger,” he deadpans. “Caramelized onions, barbeque sauce. Medium rare.”

The chef blinks in surprise and Murdock’s smile intensifies. “A bacon… yes, of course, Captain. Do you have a preference for cheese?” His voice is dripping with contempt, a fairly bold move considering Murdock’s reputation.

“Surprise me.”

“I’ll have the same,” Murdock says, taking another sip of his wine. “I’m sure someone of your calibre can handle a simple, rustic dish, Chef?”

The threat is as plain as if he’d stated he’d set the man on fire if the burger wasn’t up to standard. Frank picks up his wine glass as the chef bows and the staff disperses, leaving them alone in the main dining room with the exception of David standing like a statue at the hostess station under Otomo’s watchful eye.

The wine smells like the cough syrup Frank remembers his Nonna giving him when he was a kid with the flu. He takes a sip and grimaces, setting the glass down firmly away from his plate and washing it down with water. Probably best he’s sober dealing with Murdock anyway.

“Aw, not to your taste, Frank?” Murdock clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Tastes like I just ate a goddamned pencil, Red,” Frank replies, watching in amusement as Murdock takes the glass and pours it into his own. For a guy who’s dead set on keeping up appearances, he sure likes to throw it back in people’s faces.

Murdock shrugs and brushes his hair back. “No worries. I’m sure we can get you something else; you’re a bourbon man, correct? You tasted like rye that night we spent together.”

Frank swallows heavily and fights to keep his pulse steady. “Yeah, let’s not fuckin’ talk about that,” he growls.

“Why? I enjoyed it, you enjoyed it – well, up until you thought too hard about it, anyway. I’ve been meaning to ask: was that because of me or am I dealing with gay panic here? ‘Cause I can help you with the latter and you _seemed_ to have everything in hand, so to speak, but if there’s anything I can do –“

“Just stop fucking talking,” Frank snaps quietly, reaching for his water glass in irritation.

Murdock grins a filthy grin, letting his glasses slide down his nose until Frank can see those pale blue eyes. Shark’s eyes, clouded and soulless. “We can experiment with better uses for my mouth later, don’t worry,” he purrs.

Frank nearly chokes on his water, his knee jerking up and slamming into the table, Murdock’s laughter ringing in his ears. Fuck. He needs to get Murdock off this whole date fixation, needs to figure out what the psycho has up his sleeve. There’s no way he buys out an entire night at one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan just so they can eat burgers. There’s a bigger message he’s planning on sending to David, probably to the owners; Frank just has to figure out what.

“What’d these guys do anyway?” The direct approach has always worked for Frank, he’s never one to mince words. Murdock seems to be in a jovial mood, so maybe he won’t take offense to the questions. “I’m assuming you own part of this place –“

“Indirectly,” Murdock replies vaguely.

“Fine, _indirectly_ own part of it. They seem to be doing good business. They were booked out months in advance for reservations when I tried to bring Maria here for our anniversary and that wasn’t so long ago.” It seems like an eternity ago, a failed, desperate grab to keep his wife from leaving him. “They not sending you enough money, Red, that it? Don’t you have enough money at this point? I know you gotta pay off your goons and your minions and your hit men but…”

Murdock’s expression goes chilly behind his sunglasses and he sips his wine, savouring the flavour before setting the glass carefully back down. He folds his hands and Frank shivers suddenly at the weight of that blind gaze. “I said there would be no questions, Frank. Don’t make me repeat myself again,” he says mildly. “Don’t think too hard, Captain. Just sit back, relax, enjoy yourself. It’s been a while since you’ve done so.”

Easier said than done. Frank’s got goosebumps all down his arms and he’s not sure whether it’s from the rage simmering under his skin or the residual lust. He bites the inside of his lip and rubs his hands over his beard, wishing Murdock had a beef with some cheaper restaurant so he’d have straw wrappers or paper napkins to shred so he’d have _something_ to do with his hands.

“Tell me, Frank, I’m curious. Why’d you join the NYPD after leaving Stark’s force? Before you accuse me of anything, there’s no trick to the question. I’m a lawyer and I’ve seen a lot of corrupt cops and you’re… you’re a different breed entirely.”

Frank snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. “You don’t get to know me, Murdock. That’s not what we’re doing here.”

“Indulge me,” Murdock replies with a shrug. “I’ll answer anything you want in return; no bullshit, no lawyer tricks, no double speak. Just me.”

There are a million questions at the front of Frank’s mind, half of which are strategic, a quarter admittedly filthy, and the rest just dumbass shit he knows will drive Murdock up a wall trying to decode. He lets out a sigh, but can’t really come up with an excuse to not answer. “I wanted to be a better man,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “The Marines used me, Stark fuckin’ used me, I figured as a cop I’d have a little more control.”

Murdock raises an eyebrow and sips his wine. “I didn’t take you for the naïve type.”

Huffing a derisive laugh, Frank looks down at the table and fiddles with the corner of his napkin. “Yeah, well, that changed pretty damned quick.” He’s self-aware enough to know he’d been a shitty cop. As a Marine, he was good at being told where to go and what to do; as Stark’s War Machine, he’d been pointed at a target and let go. As a cop? There wasn’t enough to keep his more violent urges in check. He’s got an obsessive personality – hell, case in point’s sitting right across from him – and the NYPD merely fed those urges.

“Too much power?” Murdock muses, as if he can follow Frank’s train of thought. “’Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ Despite what you may think of me, that I do understand.”

There’s a tone to Murdock’s voice that Frank hasn’t heard before, a level of introspection he hasn’t thought the Kingpin’s capable of. “Is that what happened to you, Red? Ol’ Fisk give you too much leash and you just had to start biting the hand that fed you?”

“Not quite. I hated Fisk, believe it or not, and everything he stood for and everything he pretended to be.”

“But you still represented him, still were his fuckin’ lapdog until the day he died.” The day Murdock killed him, but that wasn’t for eavesdropping citizens to hear.

Murdock’s palm slaps the table with vicious force, slopping Frank’s water over the sides of the glass. “You don’t know a _thing_ about me,” he hisses and for a second, Frank considers reaching for his gun. Lip curling in a silent snarl, Murdock straightens, adjusts his tie, and schools his face into careful neutrality. “The only one I look out for is _me_ , Frank. Even when Fisk was the Kingpin, I was the one with the power.”

“Yeah, you’ve gotta come out on top, right?” Frank jokes, hoping the innuendo won’t come back to bite him in the ass later.

It works. The shark smile is back on Murdock’s face and whatever the violent outburst was seems to have gone. “One thing you’ll find out about me, my dear Captain, is I _always_ get my man.”

There’s that chill again that’s both uncomfortable and more than a little arousing. Murdock’s nostrils flare and his smile turns downright _filthy_ , his ankle brushing Frank’s calf and rubbing slowly under the table. The bastard can’t even see him, but Frank’s fucking hypnotized by those crimson lenses, by the empty blue eyes behind them, and this is _not_ fucking boding well for the rest of his goddamned night.

The spell is broken by the chef clearing his throat as he approaches the table. The waitress sets the two plates down and the burgers smell absolutely heavenly, Frank has to admit. They look cooked to mouthwatering perfection, exactly as Frank requested. He’s impressed and takes a quick glance at Murdock to judge his reaction.

As usual, Murdock’s schooled his expression to one of smug neutrality. He holds up a hand when Frank goes to pick his burger up and tilts his head a fraction, as if listening to something. “Do you trust me, Frank?” he asks quietly, almost casually.

_Yes_. “Why?” Frank sets the burger back down carefully. He can hear one of the guards - Dmitri, probably, Otomo’s just as silent as Murdock – moving over to the host station.

“Answer me.”

Beside the table, the chef shifts uncomfortably and the waitress looks between him and the table in utter confusion. Frank presses his calf against Murdock’s ankle and licks his lips as he nods, his stomach flipping like he’s in freefall. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Excellent,” Murdock purrs, reaching out and snagging Frank’s plate and switching it with his own. “Eat. Enjoy your burger.”

There’s a flash of silver and a gurgling sound, red splashing across the table just short of their plates. The waitress howls and for a second, Frank thinks it’s her who’s been hit, but the chef’s legs buckle and he collapses, his hands going to his ruined throat.

Murdock lifts a corner of the tablecloth and cleans the knife on it absently. He frowns, wiping at a few stray drops of blood on his cheek with his sleeve. “I said to eat,” he says, gesturing at Frank’s burger. “It’s perfectly safe. I apologize for ruining the ambience but…” he trails off with a look of pure wrath at the still-hysterical waitress and he lashes out, grabbing her by the throat like a striking snake. “Unless you would like to join your chef, I suggest you shut the fuck up. I’m not in the fucking mood for a migraine.”

Frank’s still too stunned by the blatant display of brutality to eat. He gapes at Murdock, ignoring the twitching body next to the table, and automatically shifts his chair to avoid the growing pool of blood. “Let her go,” he manages to rasp out, his throat suddenly dry. “What the fuck, Murdock?”

There’s a cock of a gun behind them and Frank turns to see Dmitri press the barrel of his pistol to David’s head at the host’s station.

“I told you, I had some problems with management here lately,” Murdock says. “Let’s just say dear David isn’t my biggest fan – shocker, right? He hired our dearly departed chef for both his culinary expertise and because he was willing to poison someone my organization had invested quite a bit into.”

“Master Murdock, I swear I had no idea, please!” the waitress babbled, quaking in fear.

“Girl, that’s the only reason you’ve still got vocal cords. Nice trick, by the way, David – poison the good Captain instead of me? How were you going to spin that one – try to get me to take the fall for it? Not gonna lie, it feels a _bit_ personal.”

David’s stock still, his arms braced on the station. He’s pretty brave for a guy whose life expectancy just shortened to less than five minutes, Frank’s gotta give it to him. He’s seen far tougher men turn into blubbering idiots when facing their own demise.

“We won’t bow to the Hand, Murdock, and we certainly won’t bow to _you_ ,” David spits, lifting his chin slowly in defiance.

Murdock leans back in his seat and gestures to Otomo. “Y’know what would be in poor taste, David? If I had Dmitri shoot your knees out so you _had_ to bow to me; that’s just… I dunno, tacky.” He hands the plate he swapped out to Otomo with a smile. “You like a good burger, don’t you, David? Smells delicious, trust me, I’d love to share, but I think I’ll just ask Frank for a bite of his instead. Cyanide’s just not my thing, y’know?”

Frank’s mind whirls, his appetite entirely lost. Why would the chef try to poison _him_ and not Murdock? Is their relationship _that_ obvious? Worse still, what does it say about Murdock’s depth of feelings that Frank’s death would be a heavier blow than poisoning him outright?

There’s pressure on his calf again and he almost reacts. Murdock’s ankle rubs slowly along the back of the muscle and it’s alarmingly soothing, nothing heavier to it. Murdock’s trying to reassure him, Frank realizes, like a hand on his shoulder or a lover’s hand through his hair.

At the host’s station, David’s face is one of resignation, of utter defeat. He cuts the burger in half and glances at the body of the chef until Dmitri prods him with his gun. Sighing, he looks back at Murdock with half the burger in his hands. “My family won’t be harmed? My wife and son?”

“Unlike you, David, I’d never dream of harming someone’s innocent loved one. Your family has the protection of the Hand,” Murdock says, his voice filled with smug arrogance. He reaches for Frank’s plate and picks up the burger, taking a bite and groaning sinfully. “Ugh, Frank, you have to try this. I’d pay my compliments to the chef but… Still, skill’s skill and that was such a waste of talent,” he says around a mouthful of burger.

David takes a single bite from his burger, tears dripping down his cheeks and Frank looks away.

Smiling softly, Murdock reaches out and covers Frank’s hand with his own, pushing the burger into the middle of the table. “You’ve been such a good guest, Frank; I feel bad dinner had to be ruined like this. What’dya say we get Otomo to bring us a to-go box and head home? Your motel or my apartment, whichever you’d prefer.”

Frank wants to run as far away from Murdock and the Hand and New York as he can get, but all he can think of is the man’s hand over his, those long fingers gently rubbing over the back of his hand and wrist. All he can remember is how _good_ it felt to take solace in the arms of the Devil himself.

“Yeah, Red,” he says quietly, some dam inside him breaking as he speaks. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be porn in the next chapter. 
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)


End file.
